The Call of the Thunder Dragon (31 page)

Falstaff panting raised his
pistol to aim at the plane and then let his hand fall. What good
was a revolver against a flying boat? He shook his head his vision
going blurry, he felt his heart pounding in his chest. His breath
escaped him, darkness suddenly shrouded his vision. He fainted
beside the stacks of gasoline cans.

“That’s it then, they’ve gone!
Merci my lord!” Ludwig said.

“Och! Look at the we English man
fainting away, if he were a Scot he’d ‘ve taken his knife in his
teeth and swarm after ‘em!” Alistair gently set Zam down beside
Falstaff.

“Best we find another place for
these two and send for the doctor again! Och, such a waste of good
gasoline! Damn Nips if I could just git ma hands on the
blighters!”

“You go,” Ludwig sat on a crate,
wiping his bleeding face with a handkerchief. “You’re the
Scotsman!”

“Oh, put a sock in, I’ll niver
live that doon nuu!”

Chapter Seven – The one about The Pilot, The Baptist and The
Spy?

After a three days laid up
Falstaff was impatient to get back to the Caproni, he’d be pleased
to see it in one piece. Having been told that Ludwig had flown it
off the river onto the airstrip. He fretted as he heard conflicting
reports on the repairs from Ludwig or Alistair. His stitches had
finally done their job, his scar no longer bled and his ribs only
hurt so long as he did not overstretch himself.

Zam’s bruises had left her swore,
but she carried the marks of her harsh treatment at the hands of
the Japanese well. Seeing her captors killed and put to flight by
Falstaff had played its part in her recovery. The rescue had been
timely, putting her fears to flight.

Zam had been very lucky she
realised. The nightmares she had for the first three days had
stopped. Her luck this time had saved her from more suffering.
However, the reality from which she’d barely escaped still held
fear. She was keen to put the experience behind her and she’d been
up and about after the first days’ rest.

They stayed in a small
insubstantial hostel at the far North end of town, near to the
American Baptist mission and the chapel, run by local Burmese
converts.

When she wasn’t walking around
town, Zam sat with Falstaff while he was forced to rest. She never
stayed away long while there was still no news of the Japanese she
stayed by his side.

“I hope your mother and father
won’t mind waiting another week to see you?” Falstaff asked one
afternoon.

“No, my father will miss me but
not my mother,” Zam answered off hand.

“Not your mother... Yes I’m
sorry.” Falstaff started to ask, realising his error.

“My mother died when I was very
young.” Zam struggled with the unfamiliar emotions.

“Yes, I’m sorry, you told me
before didn’t you?” Falstaff said, reaching with his fingers
towards her, he stroked the hem of her sleeve. After a long
silence, Zam moved closer.

Falstaff spoke to break the
silence. “My mother died while I was away… she didn’t even know I
was still alive then. I was stuck in a damn tower in Afghanistan,
there was nothing I could do! I didn’t even know she was ill
myself!”

Zam acknowledged the sadness in
Falstaff’s eyes. Beneath the tomfoolery and boasting, she knew
there was a man with a conscience despite his secrecy. She opened
up and spoke more about herself.

“She was my Popa’s second wife.
He had waited nearly thirty years before he married again. My
sisters were all grown up before I was born. They despised me
because I was only their little, small, step sister.” Zam rolled
onto the bed burying her face against Falstaff’s neck.

“My mother, my Popa’s second
wife, must have only been a few years older than my sisters.” Zam
sat up after a pause. “They told me my father had gone soft. That
it was just silly, losing his head over her. It must have been sad
for him when she died. He was always there for me and do you know I
caused him nothing but trouble? Climbing trees, doing dangerous
things, running away from my teachers. The only time I’d sit still
was to learn to read and speak languages. I loved doing English it
was so different!”

“You do speak it well.” Said
Falstaff “I’ll bet you are anxious to get home. I’ll keep my
promise, but we’ve a long way to go yet.”

They rested undisturbed, except
with regular visits from Ludwig or Alistair. After another day, the
two Barons visited. After hearing about the exploits of Falstaff,
they had immediately taken a hunting trip up river and spotted the
Japanese and the flying boat beached on a sandbank.

They had watched the Japanese,
stalking them from the marshes, until they had packed up and
started their engines. Flying off the sand spit into the sky,
heading south, that had been two days ago.

“It is grand of you going off
after them you know,” Falstaff shook the Baron’s hand again. “I’m
sure you could have found pheasant locally without rowing up
river?”

The barons moustaches' bristled.
“Oh, But John, it was a big fat pheasant we found, full of Japanese
bugs! We let it go, most indigestible!” They both laughed together.
“We will be leaving with Adriana tomorrow. She is planning to fly
to Bangladesh, then on to Hong Kong. We intend to leave her
services there and seek employment in China.”

Falstaff grinned. “Not planning
on returning to the Cavalry are you? Taking up service with some
noble Manchu?”

The Barons shook their heads.
“No, although tempting, we wouldn’t fight on the side of
Japanese!”

Doctor Harold K.
Robbins
³²
sat back in the
creaking chair as his wife poured the tea. Over sixty, he was a big
barrel-chested, balding American Baptist from Boston. When standing
he dwarfed the layman and converts around him.

Falstaff stifled a yawn. ‘Tea
with the vicar’ was not his thing. He jumped at the chance to get
out of the stuffy bedroom he’d been in without thinking where he
was going when the invitation came. Arriving with Zam on his arm at
American Baptist mission he almost regretted getting out of bed.
However, he had been urged to visit and pay his respects to the
Pastor, since it was partly by his influence beds had been found
for them, separate rooms of course.

The Doctor’s home was busy, full
of laymen coming and going. He had working for him or regularly
visiting he boasted: British, American, Chinese, Burmese and
Karen.

The tall, balding missionary
smiled, his lips close together and his mouth narrow. Having
invited them in and urged them to take a seat while his wife
prepared tea. Making small talk he made much of being able to
recall all the names of everyone as they came and went. Addressing
everyone as Mr. or Mrs, as professional and gentlemanly etiquette
demanded. In Zam’s case, he had difficultly.

“What is yah honourable surname?”
The Doctor demanded, suddenly more animated and vocal.

Zam explained that her name, Zam,
was given to her by the local Buddhist lama when she was born.

“Put what is yah fathah’s name?”
The Pastor Harold Robbins demanded in lolling
non-rhotic
³³
accent. Putting his
tea cup down.

“When one is baptised in Jesus’
name ya take the name of Christ upon yah! He is ya’ Lord and ya’
belong to him as yah fathah before. Yah must have a family name? If
not, how then can you be baptised and given yah own Christian name
to go before it?”

Zam calmly answered, as if
familiar with the Pastor’s question and his assertiveness. “Except
for the king, Bhutanese names do not include have a family name. I
am just Karma Zam.” She smiled timidly.

Today she was wearing her hair in
a bun and fortuitously she had chosen to wear western style
clothes. A short frock or pinafore, with black stockings along with
black cotton pumps. The pale, plain pink and white stripes of the
pinafore looked distinctly acceptable, in a conventional,
unoriginal sense.

Pastor Robbins’ eyes narrowed. He
had evidently taken Zam to be a convert, despite being familiar
with their story. Falstaff wished Alistair or Ludwig had been there
to smooth things over, but thought to himself, the Scotsman, the
Frenchman, the Baptist, there must be a joke in there
somewhere.

Seeing Falstaff’s attention
wonder, the Pastor coughed. As a Bostonian and a man of Harvard, he
was used to being listened to.

“Here, a letter has come for you
from Bangladesh. Our good General Ainsley Smyth has been true to
his word and passed on a report to the authorities. You may expect
help in a week or so.” The Pastor’s face softened.

“Yah know, things are appalling
for ya’ now just, but ya’ mustn’t be cast down. We have a fathah in
heaven in whom we trust and in his name we are Baptised.”

“The name Karma means destiny,
spiritual force and Zam means join. These are Buddha’s names given
to me personally.” Zam was surprisingly vocal. “Other than that I’m
from the Paro, so that is my name too!”

“How do you differentiate who is
whose children when you don’t have a family name shared with your
parents?” The missionary seemed to be spinning a familiar line.
People without names or designations niggled him, it smacked of
disorder to him and he vocally spoke out against it.

“At home in Boston, we know who
is who and furthermore we know who has succeeded. We have great, if
not the greatest schools in the country. A model for success. If I
was to say to you I could take the telephone directory of Beacon
Hill or Castle Island, I can not only say I know those names I
could guess or know there professional qualification and what their
progress was!”

The missionary punctuated his
words with a finger banging the table, rattling the tea cups.

Zam pondered. “Hmm, why do you
need to separate us? If you knew my father Lang, you would not
forget him! What difference does it make if you know me and I know
you? Do you still need to know my parents’ names?”

“How do you keep records or yah
birth rights? Yah marriages or, or ... yah criminal convictions!
Yah baptism records? It is an ungodly mess! Are my chapel records
are the only sane catalogue of the good God fearing people of this
land?”

Paster Robbins and Zam eyed each
other as if the conversation was still undecided. The missionary
had already punctuated his reply by picking up his teacup. Zam
raised her eyebrows and looked at Falstaff for inspiration.

Zam turned nervously to Falstaff.
“He has two family names? What does that mean?”

“Well, Mr. Falstaff, er ‘Wild’ is
it?” Robbins looked for some support to his assertions.

“To be honest the Wild comes from
my mother’s side, the Irish in the family, actually even then they
were immigrants returning from America.”

The good Bostonian missionary
choked on his tea, coughing until his wife came to pat him on the
back.

“Oh, Mary-mutha-ah-gawd, don’t be
so smaht mouthed! Have you no pride?”

“Try not to get too worked up
dear. You have evensong to prepare for!” The kindly grey haired
woman said, hovering at his elbow as she poured a fresh cup of
tea.

“Thank you, Mrs. Robbins, you are
too kind. Perhaps I might be needing that tonic of mine earlier
than usual?”

Falstaff remained mute, his
family history he decided wasn’t going to be raked over by the
minister. “Tell us more about your father?” He nudged Zam. “You
said he was a lord?”

“His title is Lord, as he lives
in the Dzong, he is the head of the local the villages. He has many
friends. He only has one name and that is Lang.”

“So why don’t you and your
sisters use that name until you are married?” The pastor confronted
her again.

“Because it means Ox you fool!”
Zam sneered, “It is a good strong name for a man, what would you
think of a woman called Mrs Ox?”

Zam frowned, her brow folded into
a striking crease.

Falstaff snickered, enjoying
seeing Zam turn her frown on someone else for a change.

Doctor Robbins sat back with an
air of superiority, he let Zam’s answer go unchallenged. He prayed
that they turned to God’s word and that missionaries may ultimately
reach the erring provinces of China or Zam’s Paro.

If only, thought the Doctor, they
could find funding for but two missionaries for the alien province,
that would be a start. He had been lucky, having followed the
footsteps of the prodigious George J. Geis.

George J. Geis had an American
Baptist minister and anthropologist working tirelessly in Northern
Burma for most of his life. Arriving in Burma with his wife in
1892, he established missions throughout Burma. At the time of his
death in 1936 had been working there at the Kachin Bible Training
School.

Looking at the pair, Doctor
Robbins doubted he could do anything at all for the two travellers,
especially the brooding and silent Falstaff Wild. He had allowed
the Burmese family, who ran the guest house to continue to offer
the harried pair shelter while the man’s injuries healed. However,
after hearing of the pair’s unmarried status and the boisterous and
lethal response to the Japanese pursuit; and its primary cause, -
Falstaff’s repute as mercenary, the missionary had only rolled his
eyes in consternation, lost for words for a change.

He knew only what he was told of
the Japanese, who it appeared regrettably had died without knowing
the word of God themselves. That was dreadful, the knowledge gave
rise to ire in the old Harvard theologian, who protested the
absence from the proceedings of any prayer. But the matter had been
closed by the Police; he’d taken no part in the matter. The bodies
had already been handed over to the local Buddhist Theravada monks
despite his protests.

So he was left with the curious
pair of refugees, fleeing China on their way to a land far over the
uncharted mountains and jungles to the west.